“About how long,” I asked Dzok, “do you suppose we have?”
“I estimate that I’ve been here for three weeks,” the agent said. “There are two poor sods here when I came—a pair of slaves of a low order of intelligence. As well as I could determine, they’d been here for some two weeks. They were taken away a week ago. Some sort of feast for a high official, I gathered. Judging from the look of the menu, they’d have need of those ferocious teeth of theirs. Tough chewing, I’d say.”
I was beginning to see through agent Dzok. His breezy air covered a conviction that he’d be in a Hagroon cooking pot himself before many more days had passed.
“In that case, I suppose we’d better start thinking about a way to get out of here,” I suggested.
“I hoped you’d see that,” Dzok said. “I have a chance of sorts—but it will require two men. How good are you at climbing?”
“As good as I have to be,” I said shortly. “What’s the plan?”
“There are two guards posted along the corridor. We’ll need to entice one of them inside so as to deal with him separately. That shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“How do we get past the other one?”
“That part’s a bit tricky—but not impossible. I have some materials tucked away here—items from my survival kit as well as a number of things I’ve salvaged since I arrived. There’s also a crude map I sketched from memory. We’ll have approximately one hundred meters of corridor to negotiate before we reach the side entry I’ve marked as our escape route. Our only hope lies in not running into a party of Hagroon before we reach it. Your disguise won’t stand close examination.”
“Disguise?” I had the feeling I had stumbled into somebody else’s drunken dream. “Who are we going as? Dracula and the wolf man?” I was light-headed, dizzy. I lay back on my rags and closed my eyes. Dzok’s voice seemed to come from a long way off:
“Get a good rest. I’ll make my preparations. As soon as you wake, we’ll make our try.”
I came awake to the sound of voices—snarling, angry voices. I sat up, blinking through deep gloom. Dzok said something in a mild tone, and the voice snapped back—a booming, animal snort. I could smell him now—even in the fetid air of the cell, the reek of the angry Hagroon cut through. I could see him, a big fellow, standing near the entry. I wondered how he’d gotten through; the opening was barely big enough for me…
“Lie still and make no sound, Anglic,” Dzok called in the same soothing tone he had been using to the Hagroon. “This one wants me. My time ran out, it seems…” Then he broke into the strange dialect again.
The Hagroon snarled and spat. I saw his arm reach, saw Dzok duck under it, plant a solid blow in the bigger creature’s chest. The Hagroon grunted, crouched a little, reached again. I came to my feet, flicked my wrist, felt the solid slap as the slug gun filled my palm. Dzok moved back and the jailor jumped after him, swung a blow that knocked the agent’s guard aside and sent him spinning. I took two quick steps to the Hagroon’s side, aimed, and fired at point-blank range. The recoil kicked me halfway across the room as the monsterman reeled back, fell to the floor, kicking, his long arms wrapped around himself. He was making horrible, choked sounds, and I felt myself pitying the brute. He was tough. The blast from the slug at that range would have killed an ox, but he was rolling over now, trying to get up. I followed him, picked out his head against the lesser dark of the background, fired again. Fluid spattered my face. The huge body gave one tremendous leap and lay still. I wiped my face with a forearm, snorted the rusty odor of blood from my nostrils, turned back to Dzok. He was sprawled on the floor, holding one arm.
“You fooled me, Anglic,” he panted. “Damned good show… you had a weapon…”
“What about that plan?” I demanded. “Can we try it now?”
“Damned… brute,” Dzok got out between his teeth. “Broke my arm. Damned nuisance. Perhaps you’d better try it alone.”
“To hell with that. Let’s get started. What do I do?”
Dzok made a choked sound that might have been a laugh. “You’re tougher than you look, Anglic, and the gun will help. All right. Here’s what we have to do…”
Twenty minutes later I was sweating inside the most fantastic getup ever used in a jail break. Dzok had draped me in a crude harness made from strips of rags—there had been a heap of them in the den when he arrived—luxurious bedding for the inmates. Attached to the straps were tufts of greasy hair arranged so as to hang down, screening my body. The agent had traded his food ration to his former cell-mates in return for the privilege of trimming hair samples from their shaggy bodies, he explained. The dead Hagroon had supplied more. Using adhesives from his kit, he had assembled the grotesque outfit. It hung down below my knees, without even an attempt at a fit.
“This is fantastic,” I told him. “It wouldn’t fool a newborn idiot at a hundred yards in a bad light!”
Agent Dzok was busy stuffing a bundle inside what was left of his jacket. “You’ll look properly bulky and shaggy. That’s the best we can do. You won’t have to pass close scrutiny—we hope. Now let’s be going.”
Dzok went first, moving awkwardly with his broken arm bound to his chest, but not complaining. He paused with his head out in the corridor, then scrabbled through.
“Come on, the coast is clear,” he called softly. “Our warden is taking a stroll.”
I followed, emerged into air that was comparatively cool and clean after the stale stink of the den. The light was on along the passage as usual. There was no way to tell the time of day. A hundred feet along, the corridor turned right and up; there were no openings along the section we could see. The guard was presumably loitering farther along.
Dzok moved silently off, slim-hipped, low-waisted, his odd, thin legs slightly bent at the knee, his once natty uniform a thing of tatters and tears through which his seal-sleek pelt showed. Before we reached the turn, we heard the rumble of Hagroon voices. Dzok stopped and I came up beside him. He stood with his head cocked, listening.
“Two of them,” he whispered. “Filthy bit of luck…”
I waited feeling the sweat trickle down inside my clown suit of stinking rags and dangling locks of hair. There was a sudden sharp itch between my shoulder blades—not the first since I had been introduced to Hagroon hospitality. I grimaced but didn’t try to scratch; the flimsy outfit would have fallen to pieces.
“Oh-oh,” Dzok breathed. “One of them is leaving. Changing of the guard.”
I nodded. Another minute ticked by like a waiting bomb. Dzok turned, gave me a large wink, then said something in a loud, angry snarl—a passable imitation of the Hagroon speech pattern. He waited a moment, then hissed: “Count to ten, slowly—” and started on along the passage at a quick, shambling pace. Just as he moved out of sight around the corner, he looked back, shouted something in a chattering language. Then he was gone.
I started my count, listening hard. I heard the Hagroon guard snort something, heard Dzok reply. Five. Six. Seven. The Hagroon spoke again, sounding closer. Nine. Ten—
I took a deep breath, tried to assume the sort of hunch-shouldered stance the Hagroon displayed, moved on around the turn in a rolling walk. Twenty feet ahead, beyond the light, Dzok stood, waving his good arm, yelling something now, pointing back toward me. A few yards farther on, the guard, squat, bristly figure like a pile of hay, shot a glance in my direction. Dzok jumped closer to him, still shouting. The Hagroon raised an arm, took a swing that Dzok just managed to avoid. I came on, getting closer to the light bulb now. Dzok dashed, in, ducked, got past the guard. The Hagroon had his back to me, fifteen feet away now, almost within range. I flipped the gun into my hand, made another five feet—